Blood Silence (25 page)

The woman nodded, unfazed, and reached inside her purse and took out a slip of paper, wrote down her number, and handed it to him. “Well, in this town it’s easy to get lonely. I can help with that. If you’re interested, give me a call later and maybe we could have a little party.”

Mac took the slip of paper. “Amber, I’m curious—what’s a party run in these parts?” Mac wasn’t interested in Amber, but he was just in general interested to know what the going rate was.

“For me”—she unbuttoned her coat to reveal a voluptuous figure—“it’s usually three hundred dollars, but for a handsome sort such as yourself—well, we could talk.”

Mac smiled. “Well, Amber, I appreciate the hospitality and the offer,” he said, brushing her off gently.

“You’re welcome. Call any time.” She gave him a little wave and walked away.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Propositioned at a gas station by a prostitute in broad daylight.”

He’d read the stories about the increases in crime, sex, drugs, and the theft and violence in the oil fields, but he had no idea—couldn’t believe, really—that it was all so open and so brazen. As he looked around, he didn’t see a police officer or a sheriff’s deputy anywhere, and he suspected there was just too much of this activity going on for them to deal with it all.

Mac watched as Amber waited and then quickly skipped across the road to the truck stop parking lot, finally jumping into a navy-blue, newish Toyota Rav4. At three hundred dollars a trick, if she did four a night, she made twelve hundred dollars. Do that enough nights, and she’d make some good money, and maybe, if she was lucky, get out of the trade and onto something better. That was probably more his hope rather than any reflection of reality.

Back across the parking lot, he saw another drug deal going down. A truck driver made the payment to one man, who then made a small gesture with his fist. A minute later the trucker, having walked along the north end of the parking lot, met another man who stepped from behind a semi-trailer another ten trucks down and handed him his purchase. It was the standard operation he’d seen many times before. They were taking precautions, but they weren’t being
that
cautious, as Mac could easily see it all go down. It was all out in the open, and nobody seemed to care—and as long as nobody got hurt, nobody would.

Williston was very different from nine years ago.

• • •

Phelps fell in behind and trailed McRyan as he’d crossed into North Dakota at Fargo. He was tracking him with his cell phone and was able to follow, trailing several miles behind. At this time, his orders were simply to follow the detective loosely and see where he went and who he talked to and report in every so often.

As he approached Williston, the signal for McRyan’s phone was louder and beeped constantly as he glanced to his right and saw the Yukon and McRyan standing next to it, talking to a woman. He kept rolling by and stopped a half mile down the road in the parking lot of a roadside café. Ten minutes later, McRyan motored by and continued into Williston.

• • •

Mac made his way into the sheriff’s office for Williams County. He introduced himself to the receptionist and asked, “Is Sheriff Rawlings around?”

“I’m sorry, the sheriff is over in Bismarck for the day, attending a conference. He should be back tomorrow.”

Mac left his contact information.

“Can I tell the sheriff what you wanted to ask about?”

“The Buller family.”

The receptionist looked up. “Now, why would you want to talk about that?”

He’d hit on a sensitive topic, and he suddenly got the sense that the receptionist was not a mere answerer of the phone. She had some wits about her.

“What’s your name?” Mac asked.

“Trudy.”

“Trudy, let’s handle it this way. Have him Google my name. I think he’ll be willing to chat with me about it.” Mac knew the Google search would happen two minutes after he walked out the door and would be waiting for Sheriff Rawlings upon his return.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to tell him?”

Mac thought for a moment. “Tell him I read his report on what happened at the Buller farm, and I agree with him.”

“You … agree with him.”

“Yeah.”

“I see.”

As Mac walked out, he figured the sheriff would know about this conversation within the hour.

The beauty of Williston was that he didn’t have to go far to find the police chief, as the sheriff’s Department for Williams County and the Williston Police Department were in the same building. However, the police department offices for Williston were a beehive of activity, and given what Mac had read about the oil boom, as well as what he’d witnessed his short time in town, there was far more crime than there was law enforcement. In the back of the offices, Mac was able to pick out the police chief, a man named Borland. The chief was talking on a phone, waving his arms, and then slammed the receiver down and yelled for someone. A female uniformed officer came running. The chief started in on her, dressing her down, the door wide open.

The receptionist looked back with a perturbed look on her face and a shake of her head. She turned to face Mac. “Can I help you?”

Mac nodded to the back of the offices. “I’m here to see the chief.”

The receptionist looked back to her upset boss. “You sure you want to do that?” she asked wryly.

Mac smiled. “I think I can handle it.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No ma’am, I don’t. I was hoping just to steal a few minutes of his time.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mac McRyan.”

“Okay,” the receptionist said. “What is it you want to see the chief about?”

“The Adam Murphy case.”

The receptionist nodded, wrote everything down, and then looked up. “Take a seat, and I’ll check with him as soon as he’s”—she looked back at the chief chewing out the officer—“as soon as he’s had a moment.”

“Understood,” Mac answered with a wink and a small smile. He sat down in a chair and took out his phone and texted Riley. “Propositioned by prostitute so far, but otherwise fine.” He chuckled as he hit send. The over-under on Lich contacting him was ten minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, and with no reply yet from Lich, the receptionist answered her phone and then looked up at Mac. “Chief Borland can see you now.”

He made his way through the bullpen to the chief’s office. Chief Borland looked harried, and while it was his duty to see citizens who had a question or an issue, he didn’t look all that happy to be doing so. Sitting in a chair was another plainclothes officer, a woman, whom the chief introduced as Leah Brock, his one detective for the town of Williston.

Mac introduced himself and started with his background as a former St. Paul homicide detective, hoping it might cause the chief to give him some time and some information.

Borland blew through it. “You had questions about Adam Murphy? What do you want to know—or is it that you know something?”

Mac nodded. “I was wondering if I could see your investigative file and see what you’ve come up with so far.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Murphy’s name came up in two murders I’m looking into down in the Twin Cities. I was thinking there might be a connection.” Mac provided some background on Sterling and Gentry and the time they’d spent in Williston.

“I don’t know how,” the chief answered, not looking up, instead flipping through a thick stack of pink message notes, uninterested in Mac’s questions or in what he had to say. “And I’m not inclined to just give some ex-cop access to our investigation.” He emphasized the ‘ex’ part of Mac’s past.

“Let’s try this,” Mac pressed. “Was there anything odd or out of the ordinary about the Murphy murder?” He didn’t look at the chief when he asked the question—he focused on Brock. Her expression said there was, but he could tell she wouldn’t talk until released.

“No,” Borland answered. “It has all the hallmarks of a standard break-in. He caught the perps in his apartment, and they shot him. It wouldn’t be the first time around here. Meth heads, rig workers strung out on drugs. We have a lot of that here.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mac agreed but kept at it. “Were there any signs of forced entry?”

“No,” Brock replied.

“Any witnesses? Anyone hear anything?”

“No,” Brock answered again, which drew a look from the chief.

Mac caught the look of displeasure as well, so he turned back toward Borland. “So meth heads or maybe oil rig workers went in on the prowl in a populated apartment building in the middle of town and didn’t make a sound,” Mac observed. “Isn’t that just a little counterintuitive?”

“I don’t know that I care for the tone of the question.”

“Did you find the guys who did it?” Mac asked, looking back at Brock.

“You can direct your questions to me,” Chief Borland stated. “And the answer to that question is no.”

“I see. Are you still looking?” It was a question, but it was a dig as well. He had already decided he didn’t like the chief based on how he conducted himself, how he treated his people, and how he clearly had to control everything. Now he didn’t like him because he could tell that Borland didn’t seem to get what his job was about, which was the victims. The chief was making it about himself and how overworked he was.

“What do you mean, are we still looking?”

Mac jumped on his soapbox. “Is it an active investigation? Is it still being worked? Are leads, such as the one I’m offering, being pursued? Murphy has been dead what—maybe a week or so? I know we’re past forty-eight hours, but is Detective Brock still working it? Is she still actively pursuing leads, interviewing potential witnesses—you know, typical police work when we’re looking for justice for the departed?”

“Ah, geez,” Brock muttered, shaking her head.

“You know,” Borland answered, slamming down a file. “The last thing I need is some arrogant, has all the answers,
former
big-city detective up here flyspecking my work.”

“It was a simple question, Chief. Is the investigation ongoing or not?”

“Of course it is. But do you have any idea how many issues we have to deal with up here?” the chief answered defensively, and Mac could sense the brush-off coming. “The oil boom is great for a lot of people around here, but my department doesn’t have the resources to investigate everything. None of that money is funneling down to help us with our needs.”

“I get all of that,” Mac responded. “I’ve read the articles, and I’ve been in town for just a short while, and I can see you absolutely have your hands full, Chief. You really do. So I understand some things slide, go to the bottom of the pile, or are written off as not that important in the grand scheme of things. I’ve been there.” He wanted to be sympathetic—he was trying to be sympathetic—but as he looked at Borland, his attitude and his posture, how put-upon he was acting, he just couldn’t. It was clear that the chief was not going to be helpful, no matter how sympathetic Mac was going to be. So instead, he took the inadvisable cheap shot. “I just figured maybe a homicide might stay on the top of the pile a little longer. I guess you’re telling me it doesn’t.”

“Mr. McRyan, are you a licensed investigator in North Dakota?” the chief asked.

“Nope,” Mac replied, shaking his head, smiling, knowing the brush-off was coming.

“How about Minnesota?”

“Nope, not there, either.”

“Are you licensed in any state?”

“No, sir.”

“And you’re an
ex-cop
. There must be a reason for
that
.”

“I’m retired as a cop.” He could have explained but decided the chief wasn’t worth the explanation.

“Yeah, and I doubt that was voluntary,” the chief suggested with derision.

“You might be surprised,” Mac rejoined.

“Whatever. I’ve got work to do in my town, Mr. McRyan. I don’t have time to help you with work in yours.” Borland waved toward the door. “You found your way in—you can find your way out.”

“Thank you for your time,” Mac offered and turned toward the door. Then he stopped and looked back and stated, “Chief, you might want to take five minutes and look into my background. When you do, you’ll look back at this conversation and realize I wasn’t just looking for you to help
me
, I was looking to help
you
.” He eyed Brock as he said this. Her look told him that she would have been interested in talking. Mac closed the door behind him, snorting and shaking his head.

“He’s having a bad day,” the receptionist suggested as Mac walked past her desk.

Mac nodded and then stopped. “Is every day a bad day?”

The receptionist quickly looked back at the chief’s closed door and then shrugged. “These days, pretty much.”

Mac took a look at his watch. It was just after 3:00
P.M.
Deep Core Drilling was just down the street.

• • •

“Why did he go up there?” Meredith asked, standing in front of Lyman’s massive desk with her hands on her hips.

“I don’t know, Meredith, maybe to get the answer as to who set you up.” Lyman looked confused. “I would think you’d want that.”

“By himself?” she replied worriedly. “It’s different up there these days—way different. Frederick didn’t tell me much about what he was doing up there, but he did tell me that much. He said it was like the Gold Rush—every man for himself. Mac says in North Dakota there’s law and order, but according to Frederick, it was really rough, borderline dangerous out there, unlike anything he’d ever seen—a total sense of lawlessness. Frederick saw some shit in his career, but this was unlike anything he’d ever seen.”

“You know, Mac is pretty good at this sort of thing. Actually, he is really,
really
good at it. It’s why we have him helping us. That’s his job. And protecting himself?” Lyman waved dismissively. “I understand your concern, but I’ve seen the boy in action, up close and personal. It’s whoever is on the other side of his gun who should have pause.”

Meredith was undeterred. “Two nights ago, he’s got people shooting at him, and that’s down here, in the Cities, where it’s his home field and he has the advantage. Now he’s going to play on their home turf, and he’s alone,” she answered, walking away and toward the large windows overlooking the Mississippi River to the south. “If anything happens to him …” Her voice drifted off, and she just shook her head.